It was an altar -

Every wall surface was tiled with the faces of beautiful girls with black seeing eyes - seeing in some sense Art didn't comprehend - apart from the section behind the altar that was merely white rock.

This same material raised the altar up a few steps above the rest of the floor surface which was a soft organic spongy mass.

Art moved toward Pheel whose – he knew he was still alive because he could see his chest falling and rising, in that rhythm, because he was the altar. His body had been extended and incorporated into it. Its four legs were his arms and his other two limbs. Its surface was his back. The part that faced Art was his open skull, and brain that – he had to get closer to know for certain what it was.

Art moved gingerly across the mossy surface, the faces of the black-eyed girls following him as he – not merely their eyes, their faces followed him too; like a slow shoal.

As he moved toward the altar/the still living corpse of Pheel: their movements synchronised. The notion that this was evidence of something religious passed across him from outside. He was seeking consciously to observe with care what was before him, to take it seriously, to try to understand what was being communicated to him, because there were layers beneath this which he had no means of understanding; not consciously/verbally - in no sense that he could explain to himself in any way that would reveal anything. By mere verbal means.

He was close enough to see now - Pheel's still living corpse a religious spectacle - what was revealed by the fact of his extended and opened skull and brain. The fact of their being opened like that for him - petals, like the petals of a mature flower; his blossoming brain; the fact of his skull having separated itself and his brain, and the fact that his brain, Pheel's brain, like the petals of a rose, Pheel's brain was opened, was opening, and that it had opened, and was open for him. Like an organ that sought penetration; it was more the fact of the fact that Pheel's thinking organ, the vaginal lips of which had opened for Art's entering it.

That they were still opening.

Pheel looked in.

The waves passed through him, lulling him toward it. Hypnotising him, he felt, consciously understanding the process that was transpiring; making him think this was normal. It was in there. It is in there. It's inside. Inside/go inside it. Enter it and go inside -

Thoughts arriving whole as -

if -

But it was in there. He had no supernatural organs that might decipher whether or not any of this was something that might be a thing that -

Watching himself, Pheel worried that he was beginning to think this was normal. Skipping even the compulsive reflections that otherwise would naturally arise in him, on his entering the physical organs of the man he dreamed. They all dreamed, but in particular fashion, he allowed himself, him. The supernatural face was torn open by the supernatural organs that had been extended. To. The box of prophecies – whose? - where? - thoughts transmitted in waves - fine. They were the prophecies of the Queen of Waat that he was currently living, or not; but they were in there, anyway. This was its source.

But before he understood anything; had gone far enough through the wheels of his own compulsive reflections -

- before Pheel had any understanding or even recognised what he was doing -

He'd already grabbed the side of Art's face and stuck his head in the opening in his skull - torn apart by supernatural organs; so that - the sucking on the other side, the sucking on the other side - pulled him in, not merely physically but in terms of - who he was; his identity, his thoughts, the very purpose of his existence, this

suck –

it sucked his neck – this great suck-suck-suck - inner suck – it sucked him past the entrance and pulled the rest of him in with it.